Page 77 of Cruel Heir

“I left when it said I should. I don’t usually drive across the city, you know that.” I never have a reason to go to west LA. I’d rather not, all things considered. The best parts of the city–the interesting food, the vibrancy of the people, the less crowded beaches–all of that can be found in the south and east LA. The west side, as far as I’m concerned, is nothing but celebrities and Hollywood types with too much money, tourist traps that cost too much, and everything choked with the kind of people I’d rather avoid.

“You’re gonna have to get used to crawling out of your hole now and then if you wanna make the big bucks, Emma.” Rico gives another hoarse laugh, coughing wetly. I wrinkle my nose.

“I like my spot in the shop,” I tell him defensively. “And it makes me enough.”

He and I both know that isn’t true. I’ve been a working tattoo artist for four years now–a good one, too, with plenty of recommendations from clients I’ve worked on–but LA is an expensive city.

Those expenses have only gotten worse in the last few months.

“Don’t fuck this up, Emma,” Rico warns. “I’ll let him know you’re on your way. But you’re dealing with this. You better make sure he knows just how apologetic you are for the tardiness, understand?”

I clench my teeth so hard I can almost feel my jaw pop. Thelastthing I want to do is bow and scrape in front of whoever this guy is, trying to get him to ‘forgive’ me for running late. As if I’m intentionally keeping him waiting–as if I’d rather be sitting in traffic than getting my fucking job done so I can go home to a bowl of ice cream and an epsom salt bath for my hands.

But telling Rico that isn’t going to get me anywhere.

“Fine.” I’m sure he can hear how aggravated I am, but that I can’t help. “I’ll make sure he’s aware that I’m sorry I’m late.”

“I certainly hope so.” Rico coughs again, hacking long enough that I consider simply hanging up and letting him think I lost his call. “You do good work, Emma. He’ll be pleased, as long as you can keep that attitude of yours in check.”

“Sure thing, boss.” I do hang up then, before he can say anything else. I know the compliment was genuine, but I’ve had enough of Rico for one night. Anything kind he ever says is always sandwiched between two layers of shit.

If he wasn’t one of the most well-known and well-respected artists in the city, I’d have left the Night Orchid years ago.

The traffic starts to pick up a little, and I let out a sigh of relief. A breeze drifts in through the window, bringing with it a whiff of some expensive-smelling food that makes my stomach rumble. The sidewalks are clogged with people heading out for a Friday night’s entertainment, and I glance at them as I drive. I’m entirely out of place here. A Lamborghini pulls around me, turning into a parking garage, and I see the man in the driver’s seat wrinkle his nose at my Chevelle. The pretty blonde next to him laughs, whispering something.

I flick them both off, just in time to see the blonde’s eyes widen.

I check my directions as I get close to my destination, seeing a closed-off parking garage underneath a high-rise. It’s not the type just anyone can pull into either–as I get closer, I see one entrance flanked by black-garbed security guards that look like they’re packing serious heat. My stomach twists a little–heavy security is to be expected, especially if this guy is a celebrity, but it still makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like the idea of hanging out in someone’s penthouse surrounded by a small private army.

Unfortunately, I’m not getting much of a choice.

I turn into the garage, stopping as one of the security guards walks up to my window. “What’re you doing here, little lady?” He peers at me, his gaze sweeping over first my attire, then my car. His expression says that he thinks I’m either lost, or somewhere I have no right to be.

“Emma Garcia. I’m here on Rico Axton’s behalf. He’s out sick, so I’m tattooing his client. I’m fifteen minutes late,” I add, as apologetically as I can manage. “I was expected at seven.”

“Hang on. Let me call up and verify.” The guard takes a step back, reaching for the walkie at his hip. “Hey. Lady by the name of Garcia–mhmm, says she’s here for someone called Rico Axton. Tattoo artist–yeah. Send her in? Alright.”

The guard glances back at me, clipping the walkie back onto his belt. “Go on,” he says roughly. “Park towards the front. Door to the elevator up is on your right. Don’t go near any of the boss’s cars.” He hands me a slim plastic key. “This’ll take you up to the penthouse floor. Boss’ll be waiting up there.”

I take the card, pulling forward into the garage. As I get out and collect my equipment out of the trunk, I can’t help but take a look around–and whistle low under my breath as I get a look at the collection of cars and motorcycles on display.

I love cars. It’s not the most feminine of interests, but I grew up an only child with a father who came to LA to be a stunt driver. I grew up handing my father wrenches and going to the dinner table with smears of grease under my nails, and I’ve never shaken that–especially now. So looking around the garage and seeing an array of cars that would make any collector’s palms itch is enough to both send a wave of aching nostalgia through me–and make me possibly dislike this guy a little less.

At the very least, he has good taste.

The urge to walk through the garage and take a look at them all is strong. Right off the bat I see a ‘69 Mustang Boss, a ‘62 Ferrari, a ‘54 Mercedes Gullwing, even a classic Mini Cooper. There’s a row of motorcycles too, which I know less about, but I catch sight of a Triumph Thruxton and an Indian Scout, and it’s all I can do not to go and take a closer look. But I can feel the watchful gaze of the security on me, so I hang a left and head towards the frosted glass that leads to the elevator instead, my bag slung over one shoulder.

I step inside, and I’m almost immediately confronted with two more guards flanking the elevator, both of them looking at mesuspiciously as soon as they see me. I hold up the slim card, waving it like a flag as I stop in my tracks. “I’ve got–clearance to go up,” I tell them, sounding like an idiot to my own ears, but it’s enough. They nod, moving aside a little so I can hit the button for the elevator, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. They’re as speechless as the Buckingham palace guards, standing closer than I’d like as I wait for the elevator to come down.

Once inside, I let out a breath. I glance at my reflection in the mirror–brushing the pieces of hair sticking to my forehead away, trying to relax my jaw so I don’t lookquiteas much like I want to bite someone’s head off. Resting bitch face can be a boon in my industry, but I have a feeling this guy isn’t going to appreciate it.

Normally I wouldn’t give a shit, but tonight I kind of have to.

The doors open, and I step out. Unsurprisingly, there’s more security, and I flash the card at them again. “I’m here for an appointment,” I tell them flatly, feeling as if I’ve had to run a gauntlet to get up here. “Emma Garcia. I’m filling in for Rico Axton.”

This time, one of the guards verifies me again. He runs the same spiel that the one down in the parking garage did through his walkie, and then finally nods, turning to wave a keycard in front of the blinking lock on the front door.

“Boss is inside. Go on in.”

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